Sherilynn sat in her rented room in one of the wealthier merchant sections of Avamar. It wasn't anything like the noble quarters, or even the ones inhabited by the richest of merchants, but it was what she could afford. The room was on the third floor, overlooking a branch of the river. Even though it was the middle of the night, and the weather was pleasant, Sherilynn has stoked the fire. It was burning bright, with a sinister orange/red glow. The dancing light of the fire cast flickering shadows about the room. She sat huddled in a chair near the fire wrapped in a thick blanket. She was sweating from the heat, but nevertheless clung tightly to the blanket, as if it could offer some protection from the dreams.
This was the fourth night in a row for the dreams this time. That was more than she'd ever suffered before. Even the sleeping draught from the apothecary across the street hadn't helped. Oh, she'd slept through the night, just as the apothecary had promised. But it was a fitful sleep, yielding no rest. When she woke, she still remembered the dreams that her drugged brain had not registered until then. To add insult to injury, she had wandered around the rest of that day in a hazy fog, with her mind befuddled from the after effects of the potion. At least she hoped it was the potion that befuddled her. She didn't remember much of that day. And the dreams had come again the night, but doubled in their ferocity.
So here she was. Cowering in her blanket, in a rented room, in Avamar, like some common merchant. Exhausted to the point of collapse, but too terrified to sleep. These were the dreams that her family had warned her about. "The family curse" they had called it, when anyone even dared to mention it at all. Some had it worse than others. Apparently Sherilynn had it bad. She'd thought if she ran far enough, if she took a new name, and made a new start, that maybe it wouldn't reach her here. It seems she had been wrong.
The fire didn't seem to be helping chase away the terrors this time. The dancing flames ensnared her mind, and only revived the memories. The black razor claws ... the white-hot heat of the foul breath ... the blazing red eyes ... those eyes of death ... the fire ...
Wait ... the fire? Oh gods, what was she thinking? A fire? What had possesed her to start a fire? The fire wouldn't chase away the nightmares. The fire was their very source of power! But then again, it probably hadn't been her idea at all. But, oh gods, a fire!
Sherilynn cast off the blanket and jumped to her feet. Her bedclothes were soaked with sweat. She looked around the room for something to douse the fire. Desperately she grabbed the pitcher of mulled wine from the table next to her and cast it into the fire with all her strength. The crystal shattered as it met the back wall of the fireplace, spraying wine everywhere. The wine hissed and steamed as it met the red hot coals, releasing a sickening sweet odor.
Sherilynn ran across the the room and threw herself into her bed. Exhausted and broken, she buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound of her tears, or as if she could hide from her own tormented mind.
She didn't stop crying until the sun rose, many hours later.
When the first of the morning light finally reached her, she mechanically rose from bed. She hastily wrote a single, short letter. Then she fled to the docks to book passage on a ship. Whether she was fleeing from her doom or toward it, she really didn't know. All that she knew for certain was that she must flee. |
